Page 64

Nineteen

M oonlight spilled down upon the crossroads, its silvery light silhouetting the coach and four halted where the paths met.

Belle alighted from the carriage’s interior, her breath coming in a cloud of steam.

Crossing her arms over her breast, she burrowed her hands beneath the cape of her garrick.

Her masculine attire with its layering of coat, waistcoat, shirt, and breeches afforded her more protection from the chill than any of her gowns, yet she still felt the sting of the cold.

The damp whisperings of autumn hung in the air tonight, the promise of winter not far behind.

All about her the Rouvray Forest loomed, acres of woodland, thick with trees, the rustling leaves like sinister voices on the night wind.

Belle had never liked the place, with its legends of highwaymen, robbers, and dark ancient deeds.

Not far from the carriage stood the Croix Catelan, a weatherworn and mutilated pyramid, a memorial to the poet Arnauld de Catelan, who had been savagely murdered on this spot centuries ago.

A dying oak hovered nearby, its gnarled branches like skeletal fingers stretched out in a plea for mercy, the soughing of the trees a whisper of despair.

Belle shivered. This rendezvous point was bad enough in the daytime.

The thick underbrush afforded far too many places for concealment, leaving one always with the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes.

But this was where she and Baptiste had always met over the course of the years when involved in a mission together, it being the farthest he would venture from Paris, the closest she would come.

Glancing about her, she saw that both Baptiste and Sinclair had leaped down from the coach and gone round to the horses’ heads.

Baptiste stood soothing the restive leader while Sinclair talked to him.

Sinclair fell silent as she approached, her steps made a little awkward by the unaccustomed stiffness of the Hessian boots she wore.

“No sign of Crecy’s men?” she asked.

Sinclair backed up to consult his pocket watch by the light of one of the carriage lanterns. “It is too early yet.”

“We arrived in good time,” Baptiste said, stroking the leader’s nose. “We came through the barrier much more easily than I had expected. The customs officer did not even ask to search the coach. It was much more difficult during the Revolution, I promise you.”

Baptiste smiled at Belle. “I daresay it was all because of you, Monsieur Gordon. You make such a fierce-looking gentleman.”

Belle pulled a wry face at him, whipping off her tricorne hat and wig. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders.

She glanced at Sinclair, half-expecting some teasing remark from him as well. He remained unusually quiet even as he had ever since leaving Paris.

“Has Monsieur le Comte survived his uncomfortable journey?” Baptiste asked.

“He is a little stiff,” Belle said. The place of concealment beneath the false seat had been cramped quarters. Jean-Claude had been most grateful to be released from it. Bruised from the jolts of the road, he had at last dozed off in a corner of the carriage.

Belle sensed a tension in Sinclair as soon as Jean?Claude’s name was introduced. He paced off down the road, the gravel road crunching beneath his boots, and pretended to be scanning the horizon for some sign of approaching riders.

Belle sighed. She had had no chance to speak to Sinclair alone since leaving Crecy’s apartment. She had slept as one dead for the better part of the afternoon, only awakening to be told it was time to make ready for their escape.

She trailed after Sinclair. She knew he was aware of her presence, although he did not look round at her. As she stepped in place beside him, she observed with dismay the unyielding set to his shoulders. He was deliberately attempting to hold her at a distance because of Jean-Claude.

She wanted to beg Sinclair to understand why she had had to go to Jean-Claude this afternoon, but she feared that was unnecessary. Sinclair did understand, and it engendered a kind of sad resignation in him.

“It is a clear night,” she remarked at last. She stamped her feet in an effort to set the blood circulating through her numbed toes. She cursed the awkwardness of her tongue. Even at the worst of their troubled times together, she and Sinclair had never had difficulty finding words.

He seemed to share her problem. After a pause he replied, “I trust Crecy’s men will be able to find us.”

“You need not worry about that. All of us are most familiar with this rendezvous. Baptiste and I held our meetings here after I left Paris. Our partings have always taken place on the edge of this forest.”

Silence lapsed between them again, the air unbearably quiet but for the Rouvray with all its mysterious night sounds, some nocturnal creature scurrying through underbrush, the hoot of an owl, the crackling of some twigs.

“We will be back in England after two days,” Belle ventured. “I suppose you will have to make haste to London to report to your superiors.”

“I shall first pay a call on Victor Merchant,” Sinclair said grimly.

“And I would only be too pleased to accompany you.”

Their eyes met, fired with the steel of a shared determination to settle accounts with the treacherous nobleman, their thoughts as ever marching the same. Sinclair smiled and Belle felt some of the ice begin to melt between them.

“And after that, Angel—” he began softly.

“Isabelle.” An anxious voice called out from the interior of the carriage. With a sinking heart, Belle realized that Jean-Claude must have awakened to find her gone.

She tried to ignore the call for the moment. Blowing on her hands, she waited for Sinclair to continue.

But he had already stiffened, saying, “You had best go back to the carriage, Belle. You are getting cold.”

She started to protest, but Sinclair strode back to help Baptiste with the restless horses. Belle had little choice but to return to the coach.

Sinclair was aware of Baptiste’s shrewd stare as he rejoined the little Frenchman. “I can manage the horses,” Baptiste said. “Perhaps you ought to warm yourself awhile inside the coach.”

“It is a little too cramped in there to suit me,” Sinclair replied tersely.

Baptiste looked at him and shook his head. “Young imbecile. You should not be leaving Belle alone so much with Monsieur le Comte.”

“I don’t see that as my concern.” Sinclair compressed his lips, hoping Baptiste would take the hint that he did not wish to discuss the situation. But Baptiste never took hints.

“You must not take this attitude, mon ami ,” he scolded. “A rival, even a paltry one, but adds spice to the romance. What sort of love is this you bear my Isabelle if it is not worth the fighting for?”

“Isabelle is not a bone. I don’t propose to snarl over her like a dog. The lady is free to make her own choice.”

“Bah, you English.” Baptiste snorted with disgust. “What cold fish you are!”

Stamping about to keep warm, the little man reminded Sinclair of some sort of surly gnome who had strayed too far from his forest lair. Sinclair was sorry to quarrel with the old man, but at least his annoyance caused Baptiste to drop a subject Sinclair found increasingly more painful.

Within the confines of the coach, Belle huddled beneath a fur lap robe, restlessly drumming her fingers against the window.

She wished that Crecy’s men would come, so that they could be on their way.

Even more so, she wished Jean-Claude had remained asleep.

The wait was making him nervous, though he strove to hide it.

The comte was not formed for this sort of intrigue.

“I never thought to say it,” he admitted ruefully, “but I shall be glad to be back in England. I have missed Jean-Jacques.”

When she made no comment, he added, “It should be a relief to you as well, to at least reach the warmth of an inn and be able to change into one of your frocks.”

From the first, Jean-Claude had not appeared comfortable with her in her masculine garb.

Some streak of perversity in her made her say, “I rather like being in breeches. It gives one a great deal of freedom, which I believe you men don’t quite appreciate.

You should try struggling along beneath a pair of skirts sometime. ”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Belle had to choke back a laugh, imagining what sort of ribald riposte she would have elicited from Sinclair.

Jean-Claude merely looked shocked. She had forgotten how much she had always had to mind her tongue in his presence.

After so many years she feared it was too late to get back in the habit again.

“You never told me how you came to be connected with this band of intriguers,” he said.

“It is a long, tiresome story.” One that she had no desire to relate to Jean-Claude.

Reaching across to her, he squeezed her hand. “You have been leading a life all these years the horrors of which I cannot begin to comprehend. It is all my fault. I abandoned you. I?—”

“Please, Jean-Claude,” she cut him short. “Let us make an end to all this harboring of guilt and blame on both our parts. Nothing was forced upon me. I lived my life as I chose to do so.”

She faltered over her own words, a little stunned herself as to what she was saying.

Yes, it was true, she realized with a jolt.

Jean-Claude had left her a tidy sum of money.

She could have returned to England, sought out a more respectable sort of existence then, if it had ever been what she truly wanted.

Jean-Claude raised her hand to his lips.

“I ask no questions about your past, Isabelle. I have learned something from this fiasco. It is only the future that matters. I can no longer offer you a grand estate, but I do possess a most comfortable manor house. And who can say? One day I may still return to Egremont. I have not given up hope.”